The Tiger’s Prey. Wilbur Smith
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hear the splash.’
‘I’m a hard worker, sir.’
‘You don’t know the meaning of hard work.’ He snatched Christopher’s hand and turned it palm up. ‘Look at that lily-white skin. The only thing you’ve ever used these hands for is jerking your own cock.’ He turned his back. ‘Get off my ship, before I throw you in.’
‘Wait,’ said Christopher. He grabbed one of the bales of cloth sitting on the deck. ‘What is this? Culbeleys? Silk mixed with carmania wool? And this is jurries, the longest-lasting cotton cloth. This one—’
‘Get your hands off my cargo.’ The master grabbed Christopher by his shirtfront, lifted him off the deck and carried him to the side. He pushed him out over the gunwale.
‘Eight rupees,’ gasped Christopher. ‘Eight rupees the yard. That is what the East India Company will pay for culbeleys. Six rupees for jurries.’
He teetered on the gunwale. The master’s face loomed above him, framed by a matrix of rigging and the blue sky behind.
‘How do you know this?’
‘I clerked for my father. I wrote the entries in his ledger books. I know what the Company will pay for every cargo in every port on this coast.’ Big hands choked his neck; he could hardly breathe. ‘That knowledge could be useful to you.’
The master let him go. He slumped onto the deck, rubbing his neck.
A heavy boot kicked him in the ribs.
‘Get up.’
Ignoring the pain and the nausea in his stomach, Christopher stood. The master studied him like a hungry shark.
‘I’ll take you as my apprentice. Your pay is four rupees a month, less deductions for rations and slops.’ He saw the look on Christopher’s face and laughed. ‘You think you’re worth more than that, you lily-fingered bum boy? Find another ship.’
Christopher clenched his fists. You knew it wouldn’t be easy, he told himself. You must learn a trade before you can hope to make your fortune.
‘I accept.’
The master almost looked disappointed. He wants to hit me again, Christopher realized. The thought didn’t frighten him. Growing up with Guy, he took it almost for granted.
The master fetched the muster book and Christopher signed his name. His neatly printed English letters were like genteel islands against the sea of marks, crosses and Indian characters the other sailors had left on the page.
In the heat, the ink dried almost faster than he could put it on the page. The master slammed the book shut.
‘You belong to me now, and God help you if I catch you shirking your duty. Aboard my ship, your father’s name counts for nothing. You may have white skin and pretty writing, but I’ll flog you as hard as any of these darkies if you cross me. You understand?’
‘Yes, sir.’
The master glared at him. Christopher dropped his head meekly, stooping his shoulders in a submissive attitude he had often adopted during his father’s tirades. The master grunted.
‘Now get to work.’
In less than ten minutes, Christopher discovered the hardship he had let himself in for. Stripped to his waist, still wearing his best wool britches, he joined the other seamen on the capstan to haul up the anchor. The sun flayed his naked back; the capstan bars rubbed his hands raw. He glanced up, staring at the horizon to take his mind off the pain. Ashore, he saw a commotion on the waterfront: a group of men in Company uniforms gesticulating at the Joseph. Was it his father? Perhaps he had reconsidered.
A heavy blow fell across his back. He jerked around, and was almost knocked down by the capstan bar swinging into him from behind. He resumed his position at the capstan bar. From the corner of his eye he saw the master watching from the sidelines, dangling the short length of rope he’d used to strike him.
‘No second thoughts, Lilyhands. Desert, and I’ll see you keelhauled.’
‘Don’t let him goad you,’ whispered a voice behind him. He spoke Portuguese, the lingua franca of the Malabar coast. Christopher craned back, still trudging at the capstan, and saw a slim youth with dark skin and bright eyes, pushing at the near spoke. He must have been younger than Christopher, but his hands were calloused and his young body rippled with muscles.
‘Captain Crawford’s a devil,’ he whispered again, barely audible over the creak of the capstan. ‘But there are ways to avoid him. The more you fight him, the more he’ll try to break you.’
The anchor came up and was catted and fished. The sails were loosed, and slowly they filled with the afternoon breeze coming off the sea. Christopher hauled on the ropes as he was ordered, always with a lick of Crawford’s starter rope to encourage him. He refused to look back.
That night, he made his bed on deck, near the bow. He lay on the hard planking, feeling the aches racking his body, and stared at the stars. That morning, he’d woken in his feather bed at the Governor’s house, servants jumping to his every need. Now he didn’t even have a blanket to lie on.
A dark figure came and sat beside him. White teeth gleamed in the darkness. It was the youth who’d spoken to him on the capstan.
‘My name is Danesh,’ he introduced himself.
‘Christopher.’
‘Is your father really the Governor of Bombay?’
‘Yes.’
‘You must hate him very much.’
Christopher remembered the look in Guy’s eyes. ‘Yes. I do.’
Danesh handed him a blanket. ‘Before we are finished, you will hate Crawford even more.’
The next three weeks were the hardest Christopher had known in his life. On the second day, Crawford sent him aloft to reef a sail. It was only when he was halfway up the shrouds that he looked down and realized no one had followed. The other men waited on deck, watching him, making wagers among themselves.
A gust of wind made the ship heel over. Only gently, but to Christopher it felt like a hurricane. He tipped back; the waves seemed to race towards him. The men on deck catcalled and jeered, Crawford shouted something, but he could hardly make out the words above the blood pounding in his ears. His grip started to slip.
The ship rolled back. His stomach lurched again. His gaze began to drift down, but he knew that if he looked at the sea again he would let go and fall. He wrenched his gaze upwards, fixing his sight on the main top and forcing himself to move, one hand at a time, hauling himself up. Each step was pure terror; each time his hands closed on the ropes again, he gripped them like a baby clutching his mother’s finger.
At last, he reached the top. It was misnamed, for it was only the top of the main mast – the topmast and topgallant mast rose higher still – but to him it felt as if he’d conquered the highest mountain.
Down on deck, no one cheered him. With a shock, he realized they were not impressed with what he had achieved. Rather, they had wanted to see him fall. That was all his life was worth: entertainment to liven up the watch.
They might yet get it. His ordeal wasn’t over. Now he was up, he had to edge out along the main yard, with nothing under his feet except the thin foot rope. Reluctantly, the other sailors joined him. They ran along the yard, balancing like monkeys and immune to the roll of the ship. Some jostled Christopher intentionally, treading on his fingers or knocking his shoulders as they passed.
They want me to die.
His fingers slipped and fumbled as he struggled to undo the gaskets that bound the sail. The foot rope swung under him, the thinnest thread that felt like standing on thin air. Then there was the descent, the terror every time he lowered a foot, finding each foothold by touch because he didn’t